


Praying Knees Get Lazy

by Insidiae



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Exhibitionism, Genderqueer Character, OC Perspective, Other, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, tyrian!karkat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 16:46:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insidiae/pseuds/Insidiae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heir to the Empire Karkat Vantas has a lot of political bullshit to deal with, but they seem a little distracted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Praying Knees Get Lazy

**Author's Note:**

> This is Aria’s (turboqueer.tumblr.com) Queerian Karkat AU, which supposes that Karkat is a) Tyrianblooded and the heir to Meenah’s rule in a post-SBURB Alternia and b) genderqueer.

Your name is Shulme Anuppu and you are, horrifically, running late to your first meeting with the heir to your Empire.

Well, Shulme Anuppu  _used_ to be your name.  Ever since you turned ten sweeps old and became a fully recognized adult, you’ve gone by the title of The Conveyor, official delegate from the violetbloods to the future Imperious Condescension.  You represent your entire caste in all matters except those that are seen by the Supreme Condesce herself, rather than her young heir.

And you are late.

It’s with trepidation that you approach the door of the Heir’s office.  You raise you hand to knock, fidgeting nervously with one of you fins with the other hand, when you hear it: voices from the other side of the wall.

_“-already said not now, you wet bag of human horseshit, she’s going to be here any second and I don’t know-“_

Oh no, oh no oh no oh  _no_ what if you were so late that they just moved on and went to the next appointment, oh glub, you’ve ruined everything.  You swallow thickly and knock.

The talking immediately stops.  You wait to be permitted entrance, but after several moments of continued silence, you have to knock again.  “Excuse me?  Your Grace?”

“Uh, uh, yes,” comes the reply finally.  “Come in.  Yeah.”

Well.  At least they’re still willing to see you.  That’s something, you guess.

You enter the room slowly, an apology already on your lips for interrupting whatever conversation the Heir was having, but stop when you realize that you have no one to apologize to.  The Heir sits alone at their desk, and nobody else is in the room.  You stare in confusion.  Were you mistaken?  You’re sure you heard someone….

They speak before you can process that tidbit.  “You’re the Conveyor, right?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” you say, bowing deeply from the waist, “My apologies for my tardiness.”

They wave a dismissive hand, rolling their eyes.  “Karkat,” they say, “my name is Karkat.”

You shift, uncomfortable.  “Your Grace, I’m not sure-“

“Please,” they say.  “It’s bad enough that once I take over I’ll be the Condesce.  Before we hit that particular shining pillar of excrement that calls itself a milestone, I’d like to keep my name.”

“O….kay, then.  Karkat.”

They’re not what you expected, the Heir.  You’ve gotten so used to Her Condescension’s flash and pizzazz, you expected the Heir to be… louder, somehow.  More outrageous.  But Karkat is sitting at their desk, in a neat pinstripe skirtsuit, a fountain pen clutched almost painfully in their well-manicured fingers, and they look every bit the part of professional leader of a whole civilization.

“Thank you for seeing me today.”  You pull out a stapled pile of papers from the folder you’ve been carrying.  “I’ve come to talk about to you about the new Shore Pollution Cleanup Ordinance-”

“Oh, not this writhing, knotted Hell of striking idiocy,” they snarl.  “Look, dealing with  _actual_  pollution in your precious highblood waters is one thing – although not even  _close_  to the most important piece of political fuddlery that I have to deal with right now – but this is a whole new level of bullshit.  You are complaining about debris from ships that  _you_  bulgemunches wreck washing up on  _your_  shores, and you’re just going to have to haaa _aaaaa-_ ”

Karkat cuts themself off on a long sigh, their teeth gritted together.  You watch them gnash their teeth, in some kind of apparent pain, concerned.  “Your Grace?”

“…Handle it yourselves,” they finish after a moment.  Their face relaxes back to a neutral expression.

“Your Gra- Karkat, are you okay?”

“I’m fucking fine, why wouldn’t I be,” they say.  “Where were we?”

You clear your throat.  “I was just saying, on behalf of the noble violetblood caste, we would really appreciate it if some lowbloods might be conscripted in the beautification efforts of our wonderful oceans.”

You wait for the Heir to respond.  They stare at you silently, mouth slightly open.  Their eyes are glassy and they’re breathing fast and for a minute you’re scared you just rendered them speechless with rage.  They may be a bit more put together than you were expecting, but you’ve heard the stories and the Heir’s ragefits are downright legendary.

You start backing slowly for the door when they shake their head and snap out of it.  “Holy shitblistering fuck are you fucking kidding?  No, you can not have a small army of lowblood servants clean up your own goddamned mess.  You blithering, feculent assholes made your recuperacoons, now figure out how to solve your own problemmmMmMMmmmms  _shit_.”

Their hand slams down on the desk, knocking over a well of ink.  You leap back in surprise as they scream, a sudden string of “ _Fuck fuck fucking fuck shit!_ ” They dig their claws into their desk and you can feel your bloodpusher leap into your throat.  You are probably watching the heir to empire die right now from some awful tyrian disease and you are doing shit all about it.

“I’m going to go get help,” you say as you race for the door.

“No!  Don’t you daAAaaaaare!” Karkat shouts.  They’re still hunched over the desk but the glare they send you could wilt flowers.  You freeze.  “I’m fine.  That was just.  Just.  The death throes of my patience.  Which you have assassinated.  There you go.  Congratulations, Conveyor, you have assassinated my patience, you get a medal and a pat on the horns.”

“Your Grace, I apologize, I meant no-”

“I know, okay, and I get it.  You probably don’t even want to be here right now, and were just chosen for the job.  But what I need for you to do right now is not to get help.”  They sigh, but it sounds more contented and pleasured than the frustration you were expecting.  “I just.  Need to be alone for a bit.  Okay?  Can you just.  Leave me alone.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”  The meeting is over, clearly, and you make to open the door.  Taking a chance, you pause to ask, “About the beautification bill?”

They narrow their eyes.  “It’s not going to happen.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And if Ampora gives you shit for it tell him I personally said he can shove it up his phlegm lobes.”

The corner of your mouth quirks up.  “Yes, Your Grace.”

* * *

 

Karkat slumps back in their chair, a boneless wreck.  “Holy tickling fuck.”  They don’t make a single move, even as their chair is pushed out from the desk from underneath, the legs scratching loudly against the wooden floor.

Dave crawls out from under the desk, a smear of red at the corner of his mouth.  “Well,” he says after a moment from his position on the floor, “That was quick.”

Karkat tries to muster a glare at him, but ends up just putting their head in their hands.  “Shut the fuck up,” comes their muffled response.

Dave stretches into a standing position.  His knees crack on the way up.  He reaches towards Karkat, peeling their hands away and looking into their eyes.  “Hey.”

“You do realize how completely inappropriate that was, right?” Karkat says, peeking out.  “I mean, I’m supposed to be some kind of leader, here.”

Dave smirks.  “Ten boonbucks says Meenah would be proud.”

Karkat snorts.  “Twenty says she was fucking  _watching._ Because she is nosy and depraved.”

Dave slides onto Karkat’s lap and slides his fingers through their hair, rubbing at the base of their horns.  “We should get you cleaned up,” he says eventually, “wouldn’t want you to ruin your nice suit.”

“Clean the chair up instead, because the suit is a lost cause. I  _liked_ this skirt. It’s all your fault. You douche,” Karkat counters, but their lips quirk into a smile as they press against Dave’s.


End file.
